Fundamentals of Domestic Affairs
by nottonyharrison
Summary: An A-Z of Nicola Muray and Malcolm Tucker. Twenty-six one shots, drabbles, and vignettes of various nature.
1. Apartment

She hasn't had sex in years. The last time she can remember fucking, it produced a child. That child is now seven, and if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't actually remember the sex.

With James, it had never been memorable to begin with, but mid way through their insipid marriage it ceased almost entirely, replaced by a hollow resentment and a vibrator ordered over the internet. She hid it in a plastic container at the back of her make-up drawer, and was only brave enough to pull it out after the shittest of the shit days. After her forced resignation, she had locked herself in the en suite and gone to town on herself for a good hour and a half.

But that was months ago, and now she's against a wall in the tiny flat she rents for a ridiculous sum, hands gripping short grey hair, while a filthy mouth tugs on her lower lip and freezing cold hands are sliding beneath the hem of her purple dress.

The chain of events between choosing the dress and humping her political assassin's leg up against the wall of her shitty apartment weren't anything to write home about. Like any typical day in the life of a recently separated, vaguely depressed low level MP really. She puts the dress on in the morning at seven-thirty. It's exactly the kind of thing he would have made her change for a frumpy grey piece in half a size too large and three decades out of date.

She eats a slice of toast and has a cup of tea, then she goes to work. It's an uneventful day, which is like every day on the back bench. Constituency dullards to appease, shit to stir... lunch to eat.

Then takes the tube to the stop nearest her building, and walks to her flat. She stops in the middle of crossing the street when she spots him, standing on the front steps tapping away at his phone. A car honks and she takes half a step forward before jerking back as the car passes. He doesn't look up. She continues across the road as her heart hammers in her chest.

She decides to ignore him, and she has the key half in the lock before his hand is on her back and his voice in her ear. "Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Saviour?"

And even though she'd said _I'm Catholic_ , and shrugged his hand away, he'd followed her through the door anyway, and up the stairs to the entrance of her flat where she turns and crosses her arms over her chest.

"I thought vampires couldn't cross the threshold without an invitation."

"Nicola, that fucking dress is an invitation."

She pauses, and presses her lips together. She doesn't know why she hasn't pushed him down the stairs, but she opens the door anyway and leaves it for him to enter.

"So when are they locking you up?" She drops her bag next to a pile of unpacked boxes, and moves to the kitchen. She keeps one eye on him as she goes.

"Tomorrow. I am to surrender myself at nine o'clock for _processing..._ whatever the fuck that means." His hands are in his pockets and he's rocking back and forth a little on his feet.

"And you decided to what? Tick off step nine of your twelve step program to stop being a conniving cunt?"

Malcolm's face screws up a little, like he's smelled something bad. "I am not here to fucking _apologise_ , you daft bint."

"Gloat, then? Hate to break it to you, Malcolm, but you're the one who's completely screwed here. At least I'm still pulling an MP salary and don't have to piss in front of another human for the next two years."

"Do you _realise_ how much of this is your fault?" He takes a few long strides across the room until he's in her personal space, looming over her in a way that's a lot less menacing than he thinks. "This is one hundred percent, entirely, in every conceivable fucking way, _your fault._ "

"Cup of tea?"

She remembers the few moments that follow, but only in the most basic of ways. A hand snatching at hers as she reaches for the jug, that same hand joining the other in gripping her shoulders and pushing her towards the wall... lips on hers that are cool and a little thin.

It's that cliché of she should push him away but it's been _so long_ and if she's being completely honest, hatesex with Malcolm Tucker is something she's fantasised about at least once while locked in the bathroom. Vivid, _visceral_ fantasises she didn't need the contents of the plastic box in her make-up drawer to help with.

She goes with it up to that point with the had up the dress, and the lip tugging. She goes with it past that, where the hand moves from her leg to her back, and slides down the zip until the fabric can slide freely across her body.

She goes with it past the point of just _going with it_ and kisses him back with more ferocity than she ever kissed James, until both their lips are bruised and her tongue is tender after he bites it while she starts tugging his shirt from his trousers.

And if she just thinks _fuck it_ and keeps going with it right up until they're tangled up in a cheap polycotton sheets, his head between her legs and her hands back in his hair pressing him harder against him until he moves his fingers in just the right way... well.

Even in the morning when she wake up an the bastard is still next to her, asleep and mussed in the dim light, she she goes with it and closes her eyes for just five more minutes.


	2. Buffet

_Who cares_ , is Nicola's immediate thought when the results of the leadership election are announced. _Who gives a flying fuck?_

Well, she knows she should give a flying fuck, because it's her. Somewhat involuntarily, she has found herself the leader of the opposition. Malcolm Tucker is thrilled. Nicola Murray has no fucks left to give. She is fuckless. Footloose and fuck free since two thousand and nine.

After giving an uninspired speech Ollie wrote during a long bathroom break, she heads to the buffet. People are either slapping her on the back in overenthusiastic congratulations, or glaring daggers at her from over by the cutlery. Malcolm is next to her the entire time, guiding her down the line, helping her select which piece of lamb will be the best, being weirdly fussy over her a if she's one of the third tier royals who need their shoes tied for them and their arse wiped after a particularly messy shit.

When she's finished choosing a selection of food that doesn't make her stomach turn, and picks up a knife and fork (avoiding the gaze of the sharp-eyed naysayers), the hand on the small of her back has become irritating, and she moves quickly in an attempt to get away from his cloying presence. He keeps up with her though, and only takes the hand away when she sits.

He keeps touching her through dinner, a tap on the wrist or hand on a shoulder. He doesn't leave her side until she's walking through the door to her room, and even then he's back two minutes later knocking on the door to remind her she has an interview scheduled on This Morning at seven. She just shouts an acknowledgement through the door and continues to strip down, sighing in relief when she finally tosses her bra over the back of a chair.

There's another knock on the door, and she stomps her foot quietly and glares at the ceiling in frustration.

"What?" she says, voice blunt as she pulls a robe around her near naked body. She ties the sash and stomps over to the door.

"I just wanted to know if you would like me to bring up one of the chocolate mousse from the buffet... apparently half the sad fucks in this party are on diets and there's still enough left to feed Boris Johnson and his entire Forensic Audit Panel."

"Okay, yes bring me a couple up."

His steps disappear down the hallway. Nicola sits down in the chair her bra is draped over, and puts her feet on the coffee table. She picks at a stray thread on the hem of one of the robe's sleeves. She's contemplating turning on the television and watching Geordie Shore when the door clicks open and Malcolm walks in as if it's his own room.

She crosses her arms over her chest and frowns. "For heaven's sake, Malcolm."

"I bought you a mousse." The look on his face is odd, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat not sure what to say. In the end she holds her hand out.

"Well give it to me then."

He hands her the ramekin and a spoon, sits down on the chair opposite hers, and takes a bite of his own dessert. She does the same, and stares at him wordlessly as she swallows.

"Why are you acting so odd? It's like invasion of the bodysnatchers, just with more Scottish accented expletives."

"I'm not acting odd."

"You're being _nice_."

"I am _not_ being _nice_."

"Okay, then. You're manipulating me for some reason."

"Nicola, I am _always_ manipulating you for some reason."

She takes another bite of her mousse, and sets it down on a small side table. "Well I want you to stop it, it's weird and I don't like it."

"Manipulation isn't something most people look forward to, sweetheart. Not unless you've got some weird fetish that makes you wet every time you see a documentary about Hitler on the History Channel."

"Jesus Christ, Malcolm."

He glares at her over his mousse, and she bristles in her seat. "I need you."

"Don't worry, I'll be your pathetic little puppet for as long as you find me useful."

He licks the spoon and sets the cup down next to hers. "Yes, that's exactly what I meant." He stands and walks past her, and for the first time that night, there's no touch. She looks down at the half eaten puddings.

"Good night, Nicola." The door closes, and she looks at his spoon resting across both ramekins.

She doesn't reply.


	3. Chameleon

Nicola Murray isn't known for being observant. She has no idea who is involved in meetings most of the time, and she she doesn't seem to notice when her own staff are plotting her downfall. In political terms she's oblivious, skating by on a combination of her own exploitation and sheer luck, hanging on by the skin of her teeth while everyone around her keeps her in a perceived bubble of mildly panicked security.

It's not a fair observation, in more human terms. So when she asks after Malcolm's son, and whether or not he's doing well in his first year of secondary school, it starts a flurry of panic.

It's a subtle flurry, mostly contained to Malcolm's office and the spare phone he keeps in his desk drawer. Texts to tutors and nannies, following up on security and driver references. Three hours later he's no closer to understanding who leaked his family situation to the leader of the opposition.

And so he starts paying more attention. Watches her beyond the face value, and instead focusses on her understated way of studying others.

It's not long before he begins to feel uneasy. During a shadow cabinet meeting, he notices her watching one of the members' hands carefully, and notices her eyebrows shoot up as the man's jacket pulls up his arm a little when he reaches across the table to pick up an agenda. He's so busy watching Nicola, that he doesn't see the faint red marks and average hairiness around otherwise truly carpet-like wrists until later.

Later that afternoon, during a passing conversation with Peter Mannion, he sees her glancing now and again at Phil, who can't seem to stop sniffing. She asks him politely if he has a cold, and Peter says something about a delivery of lilies and Phil's allergies playing up. Nicola makes a crack about keeping his coke habit away from the office. and laughs. The laugh doesn't reach her eyes, and she follows up with an embarrassing fact about handkerchiefs and bacteria.

The brief interactions aren't uncommon, he starts counting them until after a week, he decides she must have amassed an amazing amount of dirt on various public figures during the course of her political career.

And oh, he's so incredibly _bored_. Two years in opposition and he's allowed his boredom to become complacency, right up to the point where he's failed to notice his own puppet turning into a full-blown Pinocchio.

He should execute her for her deception, but he can't. Cutting off her head in front of the population of Whitehall could have disastrous consequences, so he settles for the next best thing... he grovels. Inasmuch as a Malcolm Tucker is able to grovel.

And when he leaves her office, brushing his hair back with one hand and touching his fingers to his mouth, he's not sure who got one over on the other this time.


	4. Deer

She's got that look like a deer caught in headlights, and then she's gone. Running down the corridors of number ten, like there's a hunter on her tail with a semi-automatic.

Malcolm watches her go, tuning out Steve Fleming as he drones on about Malcolm's failures. He shoos the vultures away from Sam a they cluster they have formed around her desk, rants and raves at a few of the staffers, and eventually storms out in a fit of overt petulance.

He doesn't even bother using one of the fleet cars, and instead jumps in a cab. For the next three hours, he sulks. Shameless, childish, un-Malcolmlike sulking. He drinks two glasses of red wine, eats a bag of crisps, and feels disgusted with himself. He leaves three enraged voicemails on Tom's personal mobile, another cold and calculating one on Steve's, and a comforting and reassuring one on Sam's.

Then, whether it's because of the two glasses of wine in his usually alcohol-free system or not, he leaves and finds himself banging on the door of Nicola Murray half an hour later.

It's the deer caught in the headlights look again. A young boy runs behind her, screaming his head off, and a woman chases after him shouting a name Malcolm doesn't really give a shit about.

"Fucking... shit. What the hell are you doing here?" Nicola pushes the door closed until all he can see is her face and half of her torso. A dog barks, and a girl's voice shouts from a few rooms away.

"Jesus, Nicola... is this a house, or a fucking menagerie of retarded chimpanzees?"

"Well considering all my children are being forced to go to comprehensive schools thanks to you, that theory is rather fitting." She puts a hand on her visible hip, and tilts her head to the side. "Is this a social call, or are you here to forcibly remove my head from my shoulders so you can bathe in the viscera?"

"It keeps me young."

"So I've heard."

There's a beat, and Malcolm tucks his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. "I just need you to know that I didn't ask you... _that_ today... because of what happened in Eastbourne."

Nicola bites her lip and opens the door a little wider. "You should come in."

He hesitates, but steps through the door anyway. Nicola gestures towards a closed door. "Wait in there."

He opens the door, and steps into the small parlour. He doesn't sit down, and listens to the muted chaos of the household for a few moments. It's not long before Nicola returns.

"How's the illustrious _Mister_ Murray?"

Nicola rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. They're facing off across the room, him behind the couch, and her in front of the door. "My marriage is none of your business."

"Oh, really?"

"You fucking... _promised,_ Malcolm. You promised you would never bring this up again."

"Well we all know I'm a deplorable fucking liar who says whatever the hell he wants to meet his own ends."

"And what ends need to be met today that requires bringing up that one time we fucked?" Her voice is a hiss, there's a brief moment where he can only describe her expression as venomous, but then it's gone.

Malcolm leans on the back of the chesterfield, and fixes his gaze on her. She has the look again, like he's about to pounce on her and tear her flesh from her bones. The vulnerability does things to his chest that he doesn't like at all.

"I just want to check we're on the same page."

"You don't have to worry, I won't file a sexual harassment lawsuit against you. I was as much at fault that night as you were."

"I don't regret it, you know."

Nicola moves towards a cabinet near the window, and opens a cupboard. She pulls out a bottle of brandy and a glass, and pours herself a healthy measure. "I would offer you a drink, but you're already clearly trolleyed and I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage." She takes a slug, and drops the glass to the windowsill.

"I am not fucking... _trolleyed_." He crosses his arms, and frowns.

"Look, Malcolm. If you're here to grovel for some unknown reason – because let's be honest for a moment, I have absolutely no political influence whatsoever that can help you out of your current pickle – then you may as well just head through that door right now and go crawl back under whatever bloody rock you first emerged from in the first place."

He takes a step towards her. "Are you _enjoying_ this?"

"Malcolm, _why are you here?_ " She raises her voice for the first time, and the quiet buzz of the house comes to a sudden standstill. Malcolm tenses. A few moments later, the muffled sounds of four children and a nanny start up again.

"Look I..." Malcolm runs a hand over his face, and lets out a heavy breath. "Nicola, I don't know what it is about you but I just feel like you're... some kind of compulsion."

"Gee, thanks a lot."

"Shut up."

She snaps her mouth shut, and he can see her internal conflict in her eyes. She picks her brandy back up and holds it to her mouth for a moment before finishing the glass and refilling it. "Fuck you."

He takes two steps towards her, until he can feel the heat of her body against his, and takes the glass from her hand. Her eyes don't leave his as she lets go. "Tell me you regret it, and I'll go."

"You know I don't." Her voice is sharp, eyes challenging. He kisses her.

It's not one of those kisses you read about in books, where everything slots together perfectly. His teeth knock against hers. Their noses smash together a little. It's tentative and chaste, until one of Nicola's hands slides up his neck, and the other grabs his jacket. He grabs her waist then, and kisses her like he means it. Until both of them are gasping and a little sloppy, teeth catching on lips, and lips sucking on more lips and _oh god her lips._

And then there's a scream and a shout of _Mummy_ from somewhere towards the back of the house _._ They break apart, Nicola pressing her lips together as if they're numb, and Malcolm running his hands through his hair until he's sure he's left a pile of short grey strands on the rug. She gives him the wide-eyed look one last time, and leaves the room without a word.

Malcolm lets himself out.


End file.
